Figure of Hate

Chapter Fourteen

When de Wolfe went back to the hall, he found that all three Peverel brothers were there and, to his dismay, they were accompanied by Richard de Revelle, in riding cloak, boots and gloves. The last thing John wanted was any interference from his brother-in-law at such a sensitive time.

The former sheriff was seated at a table with Ralph Peverel and the armourer, their heads together in earnest discussion. Odo was standing near the firepit, talking to his steward and the bailiff, while Joel was sitting under a window slit with Beatrice, a chessboard between them. The game they were playing seemed to consist more of pressing their knees together under the small table than moving the pieces on the board. There was no sign of Lady Avelina, and John wondered whether Reginald de Charterai was still in the neighbourhood.

Conversation ceased abruptly as the coroner walked in ahead of his pair of clerks, Gwyn having stayed in the bailey to guard their prisoner.

'I hear you continue to intrude upon our privacy, de Wolfe!' sneered Ralph. 'When I next go to London, I shall have something to say to certain barons concerning your behaviour.'

'We'll, tell them that I have today arrested one of your armourers — and soon I may well take the other one, unless he can provide me with a very convincing explanation.'

There was a series of scraping noises as the three men at the table skidded back their stools to stand up and face the coroner.

'What mischief are you up to now, John?' brayed de ReveIIe, his little beard jutting out like the prow of a ship.

'Arresting who?' shouted Ralph. 'My armourer is here beside me!'

A grave-faced Odo came across to listen, and even Joel turned his head to watch with a sardonic smile. The steward and the bailiff looked on uneasily.

'I am taking that man Crues back to Exeter, roped to a horse. He has confessed to being involved in the murder of the girl Agnes and I have sure proof of that.' John could have sworn that a look of relief flitted over Ralph's face, but it was Odo who responded first. 'Alexander Crues? That's hard to credit. He's a stupid clod, but I would not take him for a murderous rapist. '

'He claims he was a reluctant accomplice — he says the prime culprit is Robert Longus there!'

John jabbed a finger towards the armourer, who had moved close to Ralph, as if seeking shelter.

'Crowner, I fear for your sanity!' rasped the middle brother. 'What gibberish are you trying to peddle to us now?'

De Wolfe ignored him and carried on. 'Not only that, but he implicates Longus in the murder of your brother Hugo, as well as the silversmith Scrope, down near Topsham.'

'Alexander is an idiot, he doesn't know what he's saying!' yelled Robert, stepping out from behind Ralph and gesticulating wildly at the coroner. 'His brain has been addled since childhood, all he's good for is beating metal with a hammer and cleaning chain mail.' De Wolfe ignored him and addressed himself to Odo, who was looking as worried as if he expected the sky to fall upon them at any moment.

'Sir, I look to you as the lord of this manor. In view of the accusations of Crues, who has already confessed, I must take this man Longus back to Exeter.'

'Why, for Christ's sake?' exploded Ralph. 'The babblings of that fool Alexander are no grounds for this! I even doubt his confession is worth a dog's turd. Did you beat it out of him?'

John avoided an answer to this, but again directed himself to Odo.

'The death of your brother, a well-known manor-lord, is no ordinary murder. There will be questions asked by the highest in the land, especially the King's Curia and his Justiciar. To have someone accused of such a crime makes it vital that he be properly questioned — and that is the business of the sheriff, the ultimate keeper of the peace in this county.'

He said the last words with a pointed look at his brother-in-law, the former sheriff, who had made little effort in that direction.

'I've done nothing, this is a nonsense!' shouted Robert Longus. 'I know nothing about any silversmith. Both Lord Hugo and you, Sir Ralph, vouched for me at the time.'

Ralph advanced on the coroner, until his angry face was within inches of John's long nose.

'You're not having him, understand!' he snarled. 'There's no evidence against him, apart from the blatherings of a dull oaf, from whom you probably tortured this false confession. And I need my armourer here, to make ready for the next tournament in Bristol, to say nothing of the grand melee due soon at Wilton.' His voice rose to a crescendo. 'You're just not having him, understand!'

'To hell with your tourneying, man!' blazed de Wolfe. 'A matter of three murders cannot be compared in importance with your prancing about a jousting field.'

'You exceed your powers, John,' brayed Richard de Revelle. 'You are just the coroner, appointed by some whim of Hubert WaIter to dabble in the recording of cases. Arresting felons is the sheriff's business, not yours.'

'Then it was a pity that you were so reluctant to do your duty when you were sheriff, Richard,' retorted John. 'I have been deputed by Henry de Furnellis to act for him whenever it seems necessary.'

'I do not think that is sufficient warrant for you to come into this manor and remove my servants in this way, Sir John,' said Odo gravely. He did not use the hectoring tones of either Ralph or de Revelle, but he had a certain heavy authority that was impressive.

'I warn you against obstructing my investigations into three deaths, one of which was your own brother's,' snapped de Wolfe.

'Get out of here, Coroner!' spat Ralph Pevere!. 'You are a vindictive and spiteful nuisance, using your alleged powers to misuse this family, against whom you seem to have taken a dislike. Just clear off, we'll not allow you to take either Crues or Longus.'

Ralph, Odo and de Revelle crowded around de Wolfe in a way that was openly threatening, and even the languid Joel left his lady-love and came across. The steward and the bailiff stood back uncertainly, but the armourer, heartened by the show of defiance being put up by his masters, pressed closely behind them.

Thomas and Eustace retreated rapidly to the door and the clerk beckoned urgently to Gwyn, who was holding the reins of the horse to whose saddle Crues's wrists were tied. When the coroner's officer hurried into the hall, he was just in time to see the climax of the confrontation between de Wolfe and Ralph Pevere!'

'You will all suffer greatly when this comes to the ears of the Justiciar and then the King himself!' warned John, white lipped with anger.

Ralph, emboldened by the solidarity shown by his brothers and de Revelle, gave John a hard shove on the shoulder with the heel of his hand.

'You are unwelcome here, Crowner!' he yelled. 'Just get on your horse and go home. You broken-down old Crusaders should stay by your firesides, dreaming of times past, not be given useless sinecures as a reward for long service!'

This insult was bad enough, but now the impetuous Ralph went too far.

'Get out and stay out!' he shouted, with another push at John's chest. 'I'll wager that all you ever did in your much-vaunted campaigning was to line your own purse with loot and keep safely out of the heat of battle!'

This was too much for both Gwyn and John de Wolfe. The Cornishman roared and strode across towards the group, intending to grab Ralph by the throat and throw him across the room, but his master was too quick for him. First he punched Ralph hard on the nose, causing blood to spurt from his nostrils. Then he turned and snatched a riding glove from his foppish brother-in-law's hand. With it, he slapped Ralph violently across the face.

'I hear this is the new French method of challenge!' he snapped, throwing Richard's glove on to the floor at Ralph's feet. 'Now I'm off to Exeter to fetch the sheriff and his men-at-arms. When I return by noon tomorrow, I expect to meet you in the bailey with sword and mace. Then we'll see how I fare in the heat of battle!'

There was consternation in the Bush that evening, when Nesta. discovered what had happened in Sampford. Tearfully, she pleaded with John to give up this mad idea of a duel with Ralph Peverel, but the obstinate coroner would not listen, even to his mistress's heartfelt supplications.

'It's a matter of honour, cariad. He called me a coward — me, who's been at the siege of Acre, the battle of Arsulf and many others, to say nothing of years in Ireland and France! That bastard's not been farther than a few skirmishes in the Vexin!'

Nesta was uncaring about their military histories. 'He'll kill you, John! He's years younger than you, faster and fitter — call off this nonsense, no one will think the worse of you.'

But nothing would shift the obdurate coroner. He had been insulted and he was going to have satisfaction for it, even if cost him life or limb.

Gwyn tried to reassure Nesta that her lover would be the victor, though privately he was equally concerned that his master, now forty-one years old, might not be a match for a man not only fifteen years his junior but who regularly trained for the jousting field.

Later, as they walked back towards Martin's Lane, he tried to tactfully talk de Wolfe out of the contest, but without success. Once John had made up his mind, especially over a slur on his bravery, there was no way he would ever back down.

Earlier that evening, on their return from Sampford, John had gone to see Henry de Furnellis to tell him all that had taken place there. They had left Alexander Crues behind after the confrontation, John reckoning that if they were coming back in force for Robert Longus, they might as well collect his assistant at the same time. The only danger was that both would vanish overnight, but the arrogant confidence of the Peverels suggested that they would brazen out the situation.

The sheriff readily agreed to return with John the next day and take a posse of soldiers with him, but when he heard of the challenge, he too was concerned for his friend's safety. Like the others, his tactful pleas fell on deaf ears, but as an old campaigner himself Henry accepted that Ralph's insult could not be over-looked by any honourable man.

Thomas de Peyne was beside himself with worry, as he revered the coroner as the man who had taken him in and saved him when his life seemed at an end. He spent half the night on his knees before the altar of St Radegund in the cathedral, praying that the life of John de Wolfe would be spared on the morrow.

In his almost empty house, John sat late by his fire, drinking ale and wondering whether this might be his last night on earth. He was not too concerned — he had experienced too many similar eves of battle to unnerve himself with worry. He remembered the last time he had challenged a man, almost a year earlier — but that had been on horseback with lance and shield. John had ended up with a dead stallion and a broken leg, but at least he had survived, which was more than his opponent had.

Saying nothing of the matter to Mary, as he could not face another tearful woman trying to persuade him to swallow his pride, he went to bed and slept soundly until dawn.

The cavalcade that rode up the track to Sampford the next morning was far more impressive than the usual coroner's team. It was a true posse, as the sheriff himself led the group alongside the coroner — the posse comitatus had been introduced fourteen years earlier by old King Henry in his 'Assize of Arms' and authorised the sheriff to call out any able-bodied men of the county to seize suspected criminals or to defend the realm.

Behind Devon's two most senior law officers came Ralph Morin, the constable of Exeter, and Gwyn of Polruan. Leading a dozen men-at-arms in boiled leather jerkins and round helmets was Sergeant Gabriel. Today both Thomas de Peyne and Eustace de Relaga had been left at home to write up their rolls, in case there was serious trouble. Thomas was beside himself with anxiety, especially as he would not know the outcome of the contest until the posse returned to Exeter.

The village seemed ominously quiet as the column rode along the ridge track from Tiverton to reach the manorial compound. There were people about, all staring silently at the mounted men as they passed. Godwin Thatcher looked down from a ladder against the roof of a cottage and Nicholas the smith stopped pumping his bellows as they went by. Agnes's mother sat by her door, her cheeks still wet at the thought of her daughter still lying unburied in the church.

When the sheriff and the coroner turned into the gate of the bailey, they found the whole staff of the manor turned out in front of the house. Grooms, ostlers, cooks, brew-maids, stable lads and houndsmen were standing sullenly in a large half-circle, with the more senior servants in front of them. It seemed that the steward, bailiff, huntmaster and parish priest, together with all the more lowly servants, had been ordered to witness the humiliation of the county coroner by.one of their lords. The armourer and his assistant were also present, standing at the end of the inner line.

As the posse dismounted, figures appeared at the top of the steps leading to the hall. Odo and Ralph stopped dead on the platform to gaze down at the new arrivals. They were disconcerted to see such a show of force, having expected only the sheriff and a guard or two. Once again, John fumed to see the familiar figure of Richard de Revelle coming down behind the brothers. As the trio came down the staircase, two ladies took their place at the top, snug in fur-lined pelisses against a chill breeze. The ever gallant Joel accompanied Beatrice and Avelina, their maids standing behind them, eager to watch what they hoped would be a bloody combat.

Henry de Furnellis marched forward to meet the Peverels and to establish his dominance of the occasion. John often thought of him as an easygoing, lazy individual, but Henry could be an imposing person when he wished. Though getting on in years, he was still active enough, and his tall, muscular figure reflected his long experience as a warrior.

'I am here as the King's representative in this county,' he began in his deep voice. 'You have refused to cooperate with the coroner here and I therefore command you to obey my requests, on pain of the serious consequences for defying officers of the Crown.'

He moved to be face to face with Odo, who looked more troubled than ever at this turn of events. John hoped that it would not trigger another of his falling fits, as he fervently wished Odo to win his legal wrangle with Ralph over the succession to the manor.

'Sir Odo, it pains me to know that you sided with less sensible men in refusing to allow the coroner to take two of your servants into custody,' said de Furnellis in a sonorous voice. 'I thought as the new manor-lord you would be more aware of your legal responsibilities. '

The eldest brother looked abashed, but before he could respond Ralph virtually pushed him aside to glare at the sheriff.

'Sir, there is other business to attend to before these time-wasting falsehoods about a couple of our servants. There is a matter of honour to be settled, as you well know. Let us get on with it!'

The sheriff looked at him sourly, as if bemoaning the fact that this new generation had none of the manners of the old.

'That will be attended to forthwith,' he replied. 'But whatever the outcome, be assured that those two men who are under suspicion will be taken back to Exeter with us. If anyone tries to prevent us, you will regret it, both now and in due course, before the King's justices.'

With this threat, he walked back to where de Wolfe was standing with Gwyn and Ralph Morin. A couple of soldiers had taken their horses back to the gate, where the rest of the men-at-arms were waiting on their own mounts, in case of trouble.

'Right, John, let's get you ready,' said Henry with a sigh. Gwyn was acting as John's squire, as he had done for many years, and now led up a packhorse that the last soldier in the line had dragged on a head-rope from the city. Slung over its back was his hauberk and a calf-length suit of chain mail, now slightly rusty, together with the padded gambeson that went underneath. They had once belonged to Simon de Wolfe, John's father, who had been killed in the Irish wars years before. Gwyn and Ralph Morin helped hoist the mail over John's head and settle it into place before lacing the hood to its neckline and placing the round helmet on his head.

'Short sword and a mace, that's what we agreed,' muttered Gwyn, getting more worried as the moments passed. There was no need for a baldric to support a scabbard, as John's riding sword was pressed directly into his hand. This was much shorter than a more massive battle sword, but was still three feet of heavy steel. The short handle of a ball mace was thrust through his belt, carrying a chain ending in a spiked. sphere of iron. Morin unlashed John's shield from the side of the sumpter horse and slid the inner loops over his left forearm. The device on the battered wood was that of a white wolf's head on a black field, and the dents and chips on the surface told of many previous fights.

By now a considerable number of villagers had sidled in through the gates and were standing opposite the occupants of the hall, forming a straggling circle around the sparse muddy grass of the manor forecourt. Ralph had vanished into the hall while John was putting on his armour and now reappeared with his brothers, Richard de Revelle and the armourer behind him. His shield carried the Peverel emblem of two white chevrons on a field of azure, but otherwise he was attired in identical fashion.

Gwyn patted his master and old friend on the back and sent him to walk a few paces forward, his anxiety increasing as he noticed the slight limp that John had tried to hide since breaking his left shin bone at the beginning of the year. The two combatants advanced to face each other some ten paces apart, and the murmur of voices from the onlookers died as the tension rose. An uncaring crow croaked from the roof of the manor, making the sudden silence all the more ominous.

Henry de Furnellis, as sheriff and the most experienced knight present, took it upon himself to act as marshal and loped forward to stand between the two men. They looked at him as he spoke, both sinister in their metal garments, their profiles distorted by the ugly nose guards of the helmets.

'Sir John de Wolfe, and you Sir Ralph Peverel, are you willing to settle your differences or are you firmly set upon this combat?' boomed the sheriff.

'This man impugned my courage and my honour,' growled de Wolfe. 'I cannot let that go unchallenged!'

'And I intend killing this fellow who has persecuted my family,' shouted Ralph. 'I'm going to cut off his member and ram it down his damned throat!' he added unnecessarily. A rumble of discontent ran around the crowd at this blatant lack of chivalry, which reminded Gwyn of brother Huge's gross lapse of conduct in his bout with de Charterai.

Henry de Furnellis stepped back reluctantly.

'So be it, if you are determined upon this foolishness! But 1 will see to it that you fight fair. 1 have a dozen men here to ensure it!'

He moved back almost to the ring of spectators, to stand alongside Gwyn. They noticed that Joel Peverel and Richard de Revelle took up similar positions on the other side.

There was no formal trumpet blast or herald's cry at this contest. The two men began circling and spiralling in towards each other until they were within sword's reach. A sudden clash of steel and thump of metal on wood signalled the first contact, and from then on it was a solemn, potentially lethal dance of advance, strike and retreat. The two men were equally matched, de Wolfe being more experienced in real battle and cunning in the use of his shield in defence. Ralph was younger, faster and more aggressive, but even his frequent practice in mélées and jousts had not made him the equal of John in the tricks and techniques of swordsmanship.

Back and forth they moved, rotating within a small space on the dusty ground, neither giving way to the other as their swords resounded off the ill-used wood of their long shields. The swords were made for slashing, not stabbing — but these were real weapons, not the blunted ones used in tournaments, and their points were still dangerous.

The silence was gradually broken by yells of excitement and encouragement from the spectators, though it was not clear who was shouting for whom. The clash of weapons became almost rhythmical, and although probably no more than five minutes had elapsed, it seemed like half a day to Gwyn as he watched his master fighting for his life. The weight of the chain mail, the shield and the sword meant that even the most Herculean fighter could not continue for long, as the physical exertion involved was too much for any man to sustain unless he was on the back of a horse.

The two men backed off for a moment, each panting to get his breath back, as they slowly circled again. Gwyn was beginning to feel more optimistic when they clashed again, as John managed to get in a heavy blow to Ralph's left shoulder which made his opponent howl. If this had been a tourney, it would have counted as a point against him, but this was a fight to the finish. After a few more advances and retreats, Ralph struck the side of John's helmet, making a dent and evening up the score, but of more concern to Gwyn was the fact that his master's limp was becoming more pronounced and he was slowing down. The break in his leg from being trapped under his dying horse had healed well and the coroner had made light of it in recent months, denying that anything was wrong, but Gwyn knew that he still had twinges of pain in it, especially after a long ride-or sudden exertion. Now it was.becoming obvious that he was tiring and the leg was dragging-: Ralph began dancing around him more quickly, in a deadly ballet whose outcome now seemed all too predictable.

'Christ help him!' muttered the Cornishman desperately. Though he despised most churchmen and their institutions, he believed in God, as did everyone else, except a few deranged heretics, and now his tongue sought to find long-neglected prayers. But God seemed deaf that day, and a moment later a rapid blow from the younger man struck John's wrist and sent his sword spinning away across the dirt. Stumbling back, the coroner dragged out his mace as his remaining weapon and, with his shield held in front of him, stood like a bear chained to a post, waiting for the next attack of the dogs. Ralph came in again and was repulsed by a smashing blow from the spinning chain, the heavy ball gouging splinters from the edge of his shield.

'Go on, follow it up!' bellowed Gwyn, now in almost tearful anxiety. There were similar shouts from around the edge of the arena as the two combatants went at it hammer and tongs, the spiked ball whirling a defensive pattern around the coroner as Peverel tried to swing his sword edge down on his opponent. Gwyn's heart lurched with hope as the chain wrapped itself around Ralph's sword, but the iron blade slid out of its grasp and was free again. Now both men were tiring, but de Wolfe was in worse shape and was now limping badly. The end came suddenly as the next sally by Ralph drove John back, and just as he was counter-attacking by swinging his vicious ball around the edge of his shield, his leg gave way completely and he fell sprawling on the ground, virtually at his enemy's feet. He still had the mace in his hand, but his left arm was trapped in the thongs of his shield, on to which he had fallen. With an almost contemptuous movement, Ralph kicked the mace away and pushed the coroner back to the ground with the point of his sword. Gwyn closed his eyes, hardly able to believe that his revered companion of twenty years was about to die in the dirt of a Devon bailey, after all the perils they had shared around half the world. Complete silence had descended on the manor compound, as everyone watched the dramatic tableau with bated breath, expecting the fatal coup de grace at any second.

Then there was a hoarse cry from where the family and servants were standing, incongruously delivered in a broad Irish accent.

'For the love of God and in the name of Jesus and the Holy Virgin, have mercy, Ralph Peverel!'

Father Patrick, his face flushed from both emotion and his early morning drinking, stumbled out towards the vanquished and the victor, waving the cross from his altar unsteadily above his head.

'Gain God's indulgence by showing compassion and mercy! Think of your immortal soul and gain credit in heaven!'

Ralph, who now had the point of his sword at John de Wolfe's throat, looked up at the flabby priest, irritated by his interference.

'Keep out of this, you drunken old fool!' he snarled. But the cleric, whether from bravery or befuddlement, continued to totter across the arena, to wave his cross almost under Ralph's nose.

'You have won the fight and made your point — what good can it do you to kill a king's officer and bring great trouble upon you and your family? Will that bring you success in your lawsuit? To say nothing of incurring God's displeasure.'

Ralph stared at the' dishevelled priest, then down at the man on the ground, now clutching his leg and groaning with the pain of cramped and knotted muscles. With an abrupt change of mood, he gave de Wolfe a heavy kick in the ribs, then turned and walked away without a word. A ragged cheer, went up from some of the crowd, but whether this was to applaud Ralph's success or in thanks for the coroner's survival, it was impossible to tell. As Gwyn, Morin and de Furnellis hurried to help John to his feet, the spectacle broke up as quickly as it had formed. At this abrupt anti-climax, the villagers melted away, the servants went about their business and the family vanished into the manor house.

'It was your leg that let you down, Crowner,' said Gwyn solicitously, his voice quavering with suppressed relief as they helped John hobble across to the stairs to the hall and sit on the lowest step.

De Wolfe shook his head wearily, slumped forward with his arms on his knees. 'No, Gwyn, not just my leg, I was an old fool for thinking that I could overcome a younger man on foot. Given a horse, things might have been different.'

The sheriff consoled him as he pulled off John's helmet and began unlacing his mailed hood. 'You did well, old friend! But you should leave it another year before you try it again, to let your leg heal properly,'

John gave a cynical laugh. 'In another year, I will be fit only to sit by my fireside with a shawl around my shoulders, I should be grateful to Ralph Peverel, not only for sparing my life, but for showing me that my fighting days are over.'

He felt humiliated, old and useless, and all the reassurances of his friends around him did little to lift his mood. After a few minutes, the pain in his leg subsided enough for him to stand up, allowing Gwyn and the others to help him off with his hauberk.

'What do you want to do, John?' asked de Furnellis. 'You should rest that leg for a time and should have some food and drink.'

'I'll not go into that damned hall again and face the smirks of those people,' he growled, a little spirit returning, 'Let's get over to that poxy alehouse, at least we can have lousy fare without them crowing over me.'

He sat down again while Gwyn and Ralph Morin motioned a soldier to bring over the packhorse to carry his armour. Gwyn examined his leg but could see nothing amiss, though the muscles on the back of his calf were exquisitely tender,

'A day's rest and it will be sound again,' he said consolingly. 'No doubt Nesta will have some salves that will help.'

'If I challenge anyone again, it'll be from the back of Odin!' promised de Wolfe. 'I'll not trust being on my own two feet again!'

Already his confidence was returning, even though a few minutes earlier he had fully been expecting to feel the point of Ralph's sword puncturing his throat. When the hauberk was tied across the pony's back, the castle constable advised him to hold on to it for support as they set out for the tavern on the village green, but after only one step a voice above him brought him to a halt.

'How are the mighty fallen, John!' sneered his brother-in-law from the top of the steps. 'Perhaps my sister would have had a twinge of regret if Ralph had spitted you on his sword, but few others would mourn your passing, apart from your alehouse mistress!'

Mortified at Richard's advantage over him, John could find no words in reply, but Henry de Furnellis angrily stepped into the breach.

'Your spite does you no credit, de Revelle, but you never were an honourable man,' he flared. 'So watch your tongue, for the eyes of Winchester are still upon you and you can ill afford to take liberties. You owe your own life to de Wolfe, remember? But for his intercession, you would long ago have swung by the neck.'

Richard made a rude noise in reply, but retreated back into the hall under the baleful glare of all those below.

'Get the crowner to that tavern,' commanded the sheriff, who today seemed to have found new energy and initiative in place of his usual amiable. torpor. 'I have business inside this hall, so we'll have those men-at-arms over here in case there's trouble.' He motioned to Ralph Morin to fetch Gabriel and his troops across from the other side of the bailey, while Gwyn slowly led the sumpter horse away, with the defeated coroner clutching at its baggage.

Though his leg was still sore, de Wolfe was able to limp up to Rougemont the, next day to attend to the urgent matter of the two armourers. He had got back from Sampford the previous afternoon without trouble, as once on a horse with the weight off his leg he felt perfectly fit. It was his self-esteem which had suffered most injury, the humiliation of being first defeated and then spared by Ralph Peverel almost too much to bear. In fact, he almost wished that Father Patrick had not intervened, as a quick death may have been preferable to this nagging shame that now plagued him. And yet a worm of defiance was already beginning to writhe inside his head, which demanded retribution for the insult he had suffered.

Nesta had been overcome with relief when he showed up at the Bush the previous evening — and the fact that he had been ignominiously defeated seemed of little consequence to her, as long as he was safe. Gwyn wisely did not give her the details of how close John had been to death at the end of Ralph's sword and left her to fuss over applying her ointments and salves to John'S leg, undet a winding of linen bandage.

Thomas and Eustace were also enormously relieved to have him home in one piece, and the news that the sheriff had dragged back the two suspects was welcome news to them.

Henry de Furnellis, still surprising people with his new-found energy, was waiting for John in his chamber, the inevitable jug of wine ready on his table.

'Try to forget yesterday's trouble,' he advised solicitously. 'You acquitted yourself well, so put it behind you now. We have to get to the bottom of these killings and need to squeeze as much as we can from these two villains.'

After John had limped off to the alehouse the day before, the sheriff had virtually invaded the manor house with his posse and, ignoring all the violent protestations of the Peverel brothers and Richard de Revelle, had hauled out the two armourers and put them on a couple of spare horses that they had wisely brought with them, Hands tied and surrounded by Gabriel and his soldiers, they were brought back to Exeter and thrust into the squalid cells beneath the keep of Rougemont, delivered into the tender care of Stigand, the repulsive gaoler who ruled the undercroft.

'This Robert Longus was screaming his innocence all the way back,' said Henry, 'But the big, stupid fellow seemed cowed and silent. It was just as well that Longus was bound to his horse or I think he'd have killed Crues for implicating him.'

When the constable arrived at the sheriffs chamber, they all went out into the inner ward and down some steps into the undercroft, which was the basement of the keep, partly below ground level. A dark and dismal cavern, its vaulted roof'Was damp and black with mould. A rusty iron grille set in a stone wall, behind which were a few prison cells, divided the space in half, The rest was partly storehouse and partly torture chamber, as well as being the gaoler's living quarters — a grubby mattress sat in one of the rat-infested alcoves.

Already assembled on the rubbish-strewn floor were Thomas and Eustace, the latter looking apprehensive about what awful scenes he might have to witness, Also present was Brother Rufus, the portly and usually jovial monk who was the garrison chaplain, as well as Sergeant Gabriel and three of the men-at-arms who had been part of the expedition to Sampford.

'Bring them out here, Stigand,' ordered Ralph Morin, pointing to the gate in the iron grille, The grossly obese Saxon waddled across with his ring of keys and, with Gabriel and a soldier as escort, went in and returned with the two armourers in wrist shackles, Longus struggling and blaspheming all the way. As Henry de Furnellis had described, the large, drooping figure of Alexander Crues seemed quite apathetic, staring despondently at the ground, He was the one they questioned first, John leading off, as soon as one of the escort gave Longus a buffet across the head to silence his loud protestation.

'Crues, tell us again what you admitted to me yesterday about these deaths,'

Dully, the man came out again with his allegation that he had simply stood by while Robert Longus strangled the girl Agnes with a piece of old harness strap. This provoked more bellows of denial from the armourer, and Morin had him taken back to the cells to give them some peace while they dealt with his assistant, though his shouts could still be heard, echoing from beyond the grille.

The essence of Alexander's tale was taken down by Thomas, who sat on a sack of horse feed and rested his parchments and ink on an empty wine cask. It was to the effect that in the last few days a tale had begun circulating about the village that Agnes had begun to recollect hearing voices when she left Lord Hugo on the night he was killed. Afraid that she might eventually remember whose voices they were, Robert had decided that she must be silenced, He got Crues to offer her a penny for her favours that night, and when they met by arrangement at the trout pool, the armourer was hiding in the trees. When she lay down for Crues, Longus leapt out and strangled her, pushing her head into the water in the hope of passing it off as an accident by drowning.

'But why be concerned at whose voices she might have heard?' asked the sheriff. The answer was obvious, but he wanted it down on Thomas's rolls.

'Because the voices were ours,' muttered Alexander. 'It was Robert Longus who stabbed Lord Hugo to death, We found him sleeping in the ox byre — Robert made me come along to help him in case he struggled! '

'But why should you help him?' demanded the coroner.

Crues shrugged hopelessly. 'Because I always do what he wants. He's my master — and he gave me money.'

Henry de Furnellis looked confused. 'Why should he want to murder Hugo Peverel? He was his personal armourer, I thought they were on good terms.'

'I don't understand what was going on, sir, I think Hugo wanted Robert to do something he didn't wish to do — and something about taking away our protection. '

He suddenly dropped to his knees on the stony floor and wailed into his tied hands, 'He dragged me into his schemes against my will, I don't know what he was up to! 1 don't want to hang, I want to turn appealer against him,'

Slumped against the ground, the massive shoulders began to heave as he sobbed his heart out, but the coroner had not yet finished with him.

Motioning to the guards to pull Crues back to his feet, he continued, 'What was this "thing" that Longus did not want to do for Hugo?'

Alexander's agonised face stared back blearily through his tears. 'I don't know, sir. I think he mentioned Lady Avelina once, but I'm not very quick at catching on to people's meanings.'

Further questions from the sheriff and constable took them little farther, and with a grunt of annoyance de Wolfe waved to the soldiers to drag the man to one side, He went across to Thomas and, with Eustace peering around him, looked at the newly scribed parchment lying on the barrel.

'The man's a brainless oaf, but did you get that down, such as it was?' he demanded. Thomas nodded, but Eustace broke in with an intelligent question that made the official clerk scowl.

'If Longus killed the girl, Crowner, why was the strap found in Alexander's lodging?'

De Wolfe barked the query at Crues, and the man raised his head and gave a slow shrug. 'That's where it came from, so that's where I put it back.'

'Damned fool!' growled Gwyn. 'He's too stupid even to commit a murder properly.'

Now Robert Longus was brought out again, and he was a different proposition altogether — a moderately intelligent, certainly a cunning, journeyman, He again wrestled his way from the cells in the grip of Gabriel and a man-at-arms. Although he had been in the cells only for one night, he was dishevelled and dirty, his jerkin and breeches stained and scattered with bits of stinking straw, After a few more slaps and punches had quietened him down, the sheriff took up the interrogation.

'Your accomplice has turned appealer and we know the broad outlines of your crimes, so there's no point in these continual pleas of innocence,' he said brusquely. 'We now want the details to record and place before the King's justices.'

But cajole and threaten as much as they would, all they got from the armourer was a litany of oaths, abuse and denials, mostly to the effect that Alexander Crues was a warped mental defective who, for personal reasons, was producing a vindictive tissue of lies against him.

After five minutes of this, everyone was becoming restive, especially as Henry was having difficulty in finding a break in Robert's tirade to get in his own questions.

'That's enough!' yelled de Wolfe eventually. Not the most patient of men, especially on a day like this when his-spirits were low, he appealed to de Furnellis. 'Sheriff, this man seems immune to reasonable questioning. Has the time not come for more persuasive methods to arrive at the truth?'

Henry nodded, having seen the slight wink that John gave him as he spoke.

'I agree, Coroner, Do you think the peine forte et dure would be appropriate?' He was referring to a form of persuasive torture in which heavy weights were progressively piled on the victim's chest until he could no longer breathe.

'Either that, or perhaps the Ordeal might also be appropriate, as it is intended to determine guilt or innocence, We now have two priests here, though only one is necessary to validate the process.' He pointed at both Brother Rufus and Thomas de Peyne, which greatly pleased the little clerk, in spite of the doleful circumstances.

Robert Longus fell very quiet at this exchange, looking from coroner to sheriff and back again, to gauge how serious they were,

'You cannot torture me, I'm a freeman and a craftsman!' he cried. 'It's illegal, you cannot do this!'

'Who's to say that we can't?' retorted the sheriff calmly. 'We are the law in this county and can prosecute it in any way we think fit!'

He turned to the gaoler, who was standing by expectantly, his piggy eyes gleaming in the poor light from a few guttering torches on the walls.

'Stigand, have you made the preparations I ordered?'

The lard-faced Saxon, almost bald and wearing a filthy apron stained with blood, grinned to show his few blackened teeth. '

'The water is on the boil, sir. And I have irons heating in the brazier, in case you prefer them!'

'Right, bring him over to the wall,' commanded de Furnellis,

Longus began screaming as he was dragged across the floor towards a large iron vat that was supported on stones over a wood fire in a shallow pit. It was full almost to the brim with murky water that was bubbling under the scum on top. Near by was a latticed iron brazier filled with glowing charcoal, into which were stuck several branding irons.

'Robert Longus, this is your last chance to confess,' snapped de Wolfe. 'You know the ritual of the Ordeal — you will plunge your right arm into this vat and pick out this stone.'

Stigand handed him a round stone the size of a large apple and John nonchalantly tossed it into the boiling water.

This part was an obvious bluff, as the Ordeal was not intended as a means of extracting confessions, but was an ancient test of guilt or innocence, If the scalded arm healed without peeling or suppuration, the subject was judged innocent; otherwise he was' deemed guilty 'and hanged. The Church was becoming uneasy about this unchristian ritual, which smacked of magic, but the Vatican had not yet actually banned it.

John wagged a finger at Stigand, and he drew one of the irons from the fire and spat upon the crossshaped end, the spittle hissing on the red-hot metal. 'The choice is yours, Longus. The cauldron or the brand!'

As the man was hustled nearer the fires, Thomas averted his eyes and Eustace ran back to the steps up to the doorway to watch, as if distance might lessen the awful spectacle. The rest of the onlookers, including Brother Rufus, stood impassively, waiting for a result.

A closer sight of the boiling scum and the glowing iron suddenly broke the armourer's will.

'No, stop! I'll tell you all!' he screamed.

As with Crues and the water trough two days earlier, the imminence of intolerable suffering overshadowed the more distant prospect of the gallows. Half an hour later, Thomas had it all inscribed on his roll and the two men from Sampford were back in their squalid cells to await the next visit of the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery and the certainty of a hanging.

Back in the sheriff's chamber, the same officials gathered to consider what they had learned in Stigand's parlour down below.

'It's extraordinary how all this links together,' enthused Brother Rufus, who was a jovial busybody and liked to be in on any intrigues that were going on. 'Three murders for different reasons, all by the same men.'

'Really only one man, in that that poor dolt Crues was just a blind tool of Robert Longus,' said Ralph Morin, 'Though he'll hang for it, just the same.'

'It's such a tortuous tale that I need to get this clear in my mind,' growled Henry de Furnellis. 'I gather that Hugo Peverel paid Longus to interfere with his father's saddle-girth and then kept close behind him at the Wilton melee, so that he could trample him to death when he was unhorsed?'

'That's right, then they made sure that the harness vanished soon afterwards, not knowing that Reginald de Charterai had already noticed the damage to the stitching,' confirmed John.

The sheriff shook his head in sad amazement. 'Killing his father! That's a terrible crime. I'm glad the bastard got his reward at the end of a knife,'

'Which was also wielded by Robert Longus!' snorted John.

'I'm not clear why that had to happen,' said the constable, doubtfully.

'How was it connected with the death of that silversmith, miles away?'

'Not so fast!' complained the sheriff. 'Hugo killed his father to succeed to the manor, right? But what about Odo, the eldest brother — he was already there, as the sitting heir, so to speak?'

'Hugo must have worked all that out beforehand, trusting that he would win any legal contest on the grounds of Odo's falling sickness. It was a gamble, but it paid off.'

'And August Scrope, the silversmith?' asked Gwyn, 'I didn't follow all that Longus said about that — he was gabbling too fast.'

Thomas, scanning his parchment version of the confession, explained what had happened.

'Scrope was staying at the New Inn, as were the Peverels. It so happened that Longus came to the inn to get some instructions from Hugo about preparing his armour for the tournament. Longus stopped for some ale in the taproom and overheard the silversmith, his tongue loosened by ale, unwisely telling some drinking companion, of his trip to Topsham the next morning with his valuable jewellery. The armourer decided to take Alexander Crues and rob the man, as a profitable sideline. It seems that they had occasionally indulged in armed robbery before this and found it easy pickings,'

'And the callous bastards also decided to kill him, to avoid being recognised,' growled Henry. 'It's fortunate that the silversmith's servant survived. They deserve to be hanged twice over.'

'So how did it come about that Hugo later gave him a false alibi when Terrus spotted Longus as one of the robbers?' asked Rufus.

John shrugged. 'Longus was very close to his master and was valuable to Hugo as his armourer, so he wouldn't want to lose him to the gallows.'

'And Longus already had a hold over him, knowing that he had deliberately run down his father,' added de Furnellis.

'He must have gabbled this out to Hugo when he ran ahead of me outside the New Inn that day, when I made him take me to his master,' said John thoughtfully. 'That's almost certainly another reason why Hugo decided to give Longus an alibi — just to spite me.'

'What do you mean by that?' asked Henry. '

'Well, I was on the point of arresting his armourer, so it must have given Hugo great delight to frustrate me! He was paying me back for humiliating him over his behaviour with de Charterai, both on the tourney field and at that banquet.'

'So why then should this Robert later want to slay Hugo?' asked a puzzled Rufus. 'It seems that they were literally as thick as thieves.'

The coroner took up the story again, 'Longus claims that when Hugo discovered not only that his stepmother Avelina had been left a substantial life interest in the manor's income but was likely to go off with it with his arch-enemy Reginald de Charterai, he tried to get him to produce a fatal accident for her as well! But evil as he is, Longus baulked at killing such a high-born woman, partly because of the risk, but also because of her past kindness to him.'

'The business of her paying for an apothecary for him?' asked the sheriff,

'Yes, he says he was taken with a severe bloody flux last year and claims Avelina saved his life by getting a leech out from Tiverton to treat him.'

'So why kill Hugo?' persisted the sheriff,

'Because Hugo threatened to withdraw his alibi for the killing of the silversmith if he refused to arrange some lethal mishap for Avelina. Longus claims he wouldn't go along With that and the only way out, if he wanted to avoid the risk of Hugo betraying him, was to get rid of him. So he and Crues followed Hugo on one of his night-time adventures with a village girl and stabbed him as he lay sleeping in the ox byre.'

'And poor Agnes remembered hearing their voices?' said Rufus.

The coroner shrugged. 'She wasn't sure of that, poor girl. And she didn't know who they were, anyway, But once the rumour got around the village, Longus couldn't risk it and she had to go. Probably unnecessarily, as it happens.'

There was silence as they all reflected on this sad catalogue of violence. It was broken by Henry, who picked at his big nose and flicked the harvest on to the rushes.

'How do the other Peverel men come out of this? Have we got anything against them?'

John scowled ferociously, 'I certainly have! I owe that arrogant bastard Ralph something, but there's nothing that we can arrest him for!'

'Joel is just a selfish young fool and Odo seems in the clear,' observed the sheriff. 'I feel sorry for him, with that affliction that hinders him taking his rightful place as manor-lord,'

'And that swine Ralph will probably defeat his claim again, when it comes to court,' added de Wolfe, with feeling.

'Where does our late unlamented sheriff fit into the picture?' queried the castle constable. 'De Revelle soon made himself scarce when we burst in to arrest those two men.'

The coroner gave a sardonic laugh. 'There's only one thing, apart from whores, that interests Richard, and that's increasing his wealth. He desperately wanted that land which old William Peverel refused him, so he was buttering up the sons to get hold of it, as they seemed more amenable to the idea.'

'I wouldn't put it past him to have planted the idea of getting rid of the old man in Hugo's head,' grunted Henry. 'But we can never prove it.'

John rose from his bench and beckoned to his officer and clerks,

'There will be inquests to arrange, now that we know what happened,' he declared. 'At least the families of August Scrope and Agnes will have the satisfaction of knowing that justice has been done — or will be when the next visit of the judges is due, for those armourers will surely hang.'

'If they survive Stigand's hospitality,' said Ralph Morin. 'Lately, we've had a few dying down below of the yellow ague, I think it's from all those rats that infest those cells.'

Thomas shivered as he made for the door — he had spent a few days in that awful place some months ago when falsely accused of a series of murders and the memory lingered. The rest of the group filed out, with de Wolfe following them. Henry de Furnellis came to the door with him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

'Try to forget yesterday's episode, John! I know you feel shamed by what happened, but you must put it behind you, That Ralph is not worth your continued anger — I feel there is something evil about him, and no doubt God will repay him sooner or later.'

As de Wolfe departed, he thought to himself that perhaps he was not prepared to wait that long.

The official tournament ground between Salisbury and Wilton was once again busy, to the gratification of the treasury clerk who oversaw the collection of the entry fees, At the rates that the Curia Regis had set for the benefit of King Richard's exchequer, he would be taking many hundreds of marks back to Winchester at the end of the three-day event. As usual, this first day was for the grand melee, before the jousting began on the morrow.

Two hours after dawn, on a blustery day in early November, the Red and Blue teams assembled on their respective hillocks. As it was one of the main meetings of the year before winter set in, there were more hopeful contenders than usual, from all over England ar;td the Continent. The number of spectators was also larger, both high-born and those commoners who came in the hope of enjoying blood and maiming, as well as those whose main interest was gambling on the winners.

A large open-fronted tent with a few rows of benches had been set up alongside the recet for the aristocracy and their ladies, offering shelter from occasional rain showers and the curious stares of the more lowly folk straggling along the boundary ropes, Two of these ladies were Avelina and Beatrice, chaperoned by their maids and by Joel Peverel, looking dandified in a fur-lined surcoat over a red-and-gold tunic. The women also wore heavy pelisses against the wind and ornately embroidered felt coifs tied firmly under their chins.

The heralds and umpires were ready at their stations in front of the recet and soon the trumpet blasts and stentorian cries announced the imminent start of hostilities. In the front row of almost three score mounted knights, in the Red army away to the north, was Ralph Peverel. He had fretted for days because he had been deprived of his usual armourer, Robert Longus, but had managed to hire another man from Dorchester who seemed adequate enough. His chain mail was bright, though this rain would soon tarnish it, his weapons were sharp and his shield had been repaired and repainted after that swine John de Wolfe had chopped a piece out of it.

While waiting for the final trumpet to sound, he looked along the line and saw some familiar faces from the tourney circuit, but there was no one he knew well, He despised his weakling brother Joel for being more interested in getting his leg over a woman than pursuing a man's sport, for he had no partners today, as he had when his father and Hugo were alive.

A quarter of a mile to the south, a similar mass of men and destriers were assembled, all displaying their blue markers, Towards the end of the third rank was a big grey stallion with hairy feet, carrying a tall man with a hooked nose and dark-stubbled cheeks, His right hand supported a twelve-foot lance and his left arm bore a black shield with a white wolf's head.

John gazed at the distant Reds. Though by no means an imaginative man, he wondered whether the instrument of his death was among them today, Would that man kill him this time, as he had almost done two weeks earlier? As the tension built all around him, with horses shuffling, snorting and pawing the ground, he thought back over the days in which the idea of settling once and for all his debt of honour with Ralph Peverel had fermented.

Both Gwyn and Henry de Furnellis had tried to dissuade him from his plan — and as for Nesta, she was beside herself with desperate anxiety at the prospect of him once again putting himself in peril of death. Stubborn and intractable, de Wolfe had shrugged off all their arguments, pointing out that, once on the back of Odin, his leg would be no problem and that he was otherwise as fit as any other man. Eventually Gwyn accepted the inevitable and devoted himself to preparing John's equipment and pestering Andrew the farrier to ensure that Odin was in perfect condition. They trained almost every day on Bull Mead, where the swinging practice tilts had been left in place after the last event, until even the Cornishman was satisfied that his master was as good a fighter as he had ever been.

Now here he was, with Gwyn anxiously pacing the boundary ropes as his squire, hoping fervently that he would not be needed to carry back John's bleeding and broken body. Thomas and Eustace had been left behind in Exeter, once more in a ferment of concern that a two-day journey lay between them and news of the outcome.

The long-awaited final trumpet blast wailed across the scrubby heathland and with a roar of excitement and the yelling of war-cries the massed horsemen lumbered off, picking up speed on the slight slope down into the shallow valley that ran down from the recet.

John lowered his lance to the horizontal and rested the shaft on the pommel of his saddle, so that it stuck out obliquely past Odin's left ear, which was now flattened back as the stallion joined in the surge of excitement that flowed over the Blue squadron.

As the two waves of warriors hurtled towards each other, John kept a sharp lookout for a blue shield emblazoned with white chevrons.

Ralph Peverel knew that he was here, as John had seen him earlier, staring from a distance at his wolfs head emblem. The coroner had ensured, when he arrived to pay his fee, that he was not placed in the same army as Peverel, which would have wrecked his plans. Thankfully, he knew several of the marshals who were organising the event and a quiet word, without explanation, ensured that they were separated.

As the moment of collision approached, John's main concern was not to be diverted from his purpose by some other knight engaging him in a lengthy duel — or even worse, wounding or unhorsing him before he had the chance to confront Ralph. As soon as he spotted the blue-and-white shield, he dropped back and swerved to avoid an enthusiastic youngster who seemed intent on challenging him.

The thunder of hoofs diminished as the long charge degenerated into a swirling mass of horses and men, but de Wolfe managed to weave through them towards Ralph Peverel, who seemed to have the same objective. John fended off one half-hearted thrust from the lance of a knight on a white destrier, but they moved past him and he then found himself twenty paces in front of Peverel.

They were too near for a worthwhile charge, but both spurred their chargers forward and began hostilities with a simultaneous attack on each other's shields, which did nothing mare than add a few additional scratches to the wood as the tips of the lances slid off. As they passed each other, Ralph yelled a taunt above the general hubbub around them. 'No drunken Irish priest to save you today, de Wolfe!'

Then he was gone, and the two riders hauled their huge horses around, like ships manoeuvring at sea. They were now fifty yards apart, and as soon as a pair of knights slashing madly at each other with swords had cleared out of their way, they pounded towards each other again. This time the impact was shattering, but their long experience allowed them to use their shields to divert the impacts without harm, though Ralph was rocked back painfully against the wooden crupper of his saddle.

Three times they circled and returned, each yelling abuse at the other as their determined horses thundered past, each on the other's left side.

At the third pass, a few inches of the tip of John's lance snapped off, but he was not concerned as he was not aiming to stab Ralph to death, only knock him out of his saddle. His leg was aching, but this was from the strain of steering Odin by the pressure of his knees, and he felt none of the crippling disability he had suffered during their combat on foot, In fact, he felt the familiar exhilaration that only potentially fatal combat can generate.

He deliberately ran out farther on this circuit, to increase his speed on the return, dodging several pairs of other fighters, their blue and red arm-flags streaming wildly as they battered each other. John felt that it would be this next run which would make or break their contest — if only he could unhorse Ralph, his honour would be restored and he could look every man in the eye again.

Gwyn, watching with anxious approval from the side-lines, also had the feeling that this next clash would be critical. He saw the two men wheel around a little apart from the main throng and poise themselves for the next charge. As loose turf scudded up from the massive hoofs of their destriers, they began moving towards each other, but suddenly a black horse bearing an erect figure suddenly burst out of the main melee and thundered past John. Already moving fast, the new stallion had double the speed of Odin by the time he reached Ralph Peverel, who just had time to pull his horse's head around and realign his lance to meet this unexpected challenge.

The impact was like a thunderbolt and the lance flattened Ralph's shield against his chest and hurled him clean over his horse's rump. As John cursed and swerved Odin to the side to avoid a collision, he saw Peverel fly through the air and land on his head, The crack as his neck snapped could be heard even over the tumult around them.

Three nights later there was a new face among those clustered around the coroner's table in the Bush, As well as his officer, his clerk and Eustace, Henry de Furnellis was there with Ralph Morin, but the stranger was Reginald de Charterai, his noble figure looking slightly out of place in an Exeter tavern.

'I have already expressed my sincere apologies to Sir John for interfering in his matter of honour,' he intoned gravely, 'But I had no idea that he was deliberately engaging that scoundrel.'

De Wolfe had arrived back in the city with Gwyn that afternoon, and now sat with his arm around Nesta, who had at last stopped weeping with relief that her lover had returned in one piece. Reginald had appeared at the castle while John was regaling the sheriff with the events in Salisbury. He was on his way to Brixham to take ship back to Normandy, but had broken his journey to explain the circumstances of Ralph Peverel's death. John had recommended the Bush as a good place to obtain accommodation for the night before he continued his journey, and now he was telling the story again, after an excellent supper provided by Nesta.

'Some time ago, I had informed the coroner here of certain allegations made by Lady Avelina — who incidentally is soon to follow me to France, as she has consented to become my wife.'

There were murmurs of congratulation from around the table, but they were short, as the audience was impatient to hear his story.

'Lady Avelina was convinced that Hugo Peverel had somehow brought about the death of her husband William,' interjected de Wolfe. 'And Sir Reginald here had the support of his own eyes, as he had seen how the saddle-girth of William's horse had been tampered with.'

The stately Frenchman nodded and took a sip of the Bush's best Wine.

'Later, she told me of further scandalous happenings at Sampford. Coming down the stairs from her solar one day, she heard her name mentioned in the hall, in which only Hugo and Ralph Peverel were present. She stopped behind the arch leading into the hall and heard them discussing the provisions of her husband's will, which gave her a life interest in a third of the manor. They suggested that it would be very beneficial for them if that life interest was very short, and Hugo said he knew a way in which this might be brought about. Someone came into the hall then and she learned no more, but she was so anxious about the threat that she sent me a message and I came to give her support, for by then I had formed a strong affection for her.'

'So that swine Ralph had knowledge of Hugo's plan to get rid of the lady,' said Henry indignantly, 'I always said he was evil, John!'

'Thank God that Robert Longus refused — though he has other crimes enough to answer for,' observed Morin.

De Charterai traced circles on the boards of the table with his cup,

'When I heard of the arrest of the two armourers and then the results of their confessions, which are now common knowledge about the county, I realised that Avelina might still not be safe in Sampford, especially if Ralph won his case to become lord of that manor.'

He stared defiantly at the faces around the table. 'Originally, they desired to extinguish her life interest. That man might still have extinguished her life!' he said firmly. 'I could not take that risk, and that is why I have hurried ahead with the marriage to take her to a place of safety.'

'But what about Wilton?' asked the sheriff.

'I knew Ralph would be there, as he never misses a major tourney — he desperately needs the winnings. But I had no idea that Sir John would also be there, with almost the same purpose as my own.'

'I didn't go there to kill him,' grunted de Wolfe. 'I just needed to vanquish him, to even up the score for the sake of my self-respect.'

'Neither did I intend his death,' declared Reginald, 'Though it had passed through my mind more than once. I wished to injure either his body or his pride by soundly defeating him. Then, when he was under my heel or my sword, I would tell him that I knew of his plotting with Hugo and if he as much as looked askance at Avelina before she left, I would cut him into small pieces and feed him to the crows!'

He sighed and drained the rest of his wine. 'But as God willed it, the matter was settled more permanently, and I would be a liar if I said that I will lose any sleep over his demise.'

There was silence, eventually broken by Henry de Fumellis.

'So Brother Odo will become lord of Sampford Peverel after all, fits or no fits, for I can't see that foppish Joel running the manor.'

'Then I wish him well of it,' growled de Wolfe. 'That sad place needs all the help it can get.'

'Amen!' intoned Thomas, crossing himself, as he was thinking only of his blessed visit to Winchester in three weeks' time.

A week before his clerk's departure, Sir John de Wolfe rode alone to Topsham. Two days earlier, a messenger had come from a shipowner friend to say that their cog, the St Peter and Paul, was due in the estuary on Tuesday. A faster vessel had just arrived with the news, having passed the Peter at sea, both having come from Barfleur. There was no guarantee that Matilda would be on it, but as the season for crossing the wide end of the Channel was almost over, there would be few more chances of a passage before the winter gales set in.

John sat in a tavern all morning, having given a boy half a penny to go down the river bank for a mile and run back when he saw a ship approaching, His mood was mixed, as part of him was saddened by the end of his weeks of freedom, yet the house in Martin's Lane seemed even more bleak and empty without Matilda's dour presence, to which he had become accustomed, much as a penitent gets used to wearing a hair shirt.

In the early afternoon, the lad came back breathlessly to report a sighting, and an hour later, when the tide was high enough, John was on the quay-side scanning the deck of the heavily laden vessel as she tied up to the sound of the sailors' hymn of thanks to the Virgin for a safe voyage.

He soon saw Matilda's squat figure, bundled up in a huge cloak, haranguing Lucille and a seaman over her baggage. When the landing-plank was pushed out to the wharf, he went forward to meet her, his heart suddenly heavy when he saw her down turned mouth and surly expression.

There was no embrace or kiss as they met. She looked around her and glared up at the grey sky, from which a fine rain was beginning to fall.

'What a miserable country, after the fair fields of France!' were the first words she spoke, Then she fixed her husband with her gimlet eyes.

'And what have you been up to, John, while I've been away?'

The coroner sighed as he bent to pick up one of her bundles.

'Nothing much, Matilda. Nothing much at all!'